


The Future We Run To

by Trash_Baby



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl is a daddy, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Pregnancy, Reader-Insert, Season 3, not the kink tho ya nasties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-14 02:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11773515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash_Baby/pseuds/Trash_Baby
Summary: 'Life had never been easy.Of course, things only got a hell of a lot harder after the world went to shit and the dead started stumbling about to take a bite out of the living.Because of course, the apocalypse couldn’t have started maybe a year ago, or a year later, or preferably never.Nope, it had to start a couple of weeks after you found out that you were pregnant.'{idk i just think Daryl would make an amazing dad}





	1. In The Beginning

Life had never been easy.

Of course, things only got a hell of a lot harder after the world went to shit and the dead started stumbling about to take a bite out of the living.

All things considered, it hadn’t been _too_ bad in the beginning. You had been picked up by a group of individuals within the first month of this whole shitstorm, and for a while, things seemed to be almost okay. Not quite okay – not for you – but okay enough for you to calm down and focus on the current situation at hand. Because of course, the apocalypse couldn’t have started maybe a year ago, or a year later, or preferably never.

Nope, it had to start a couple of weeks after you found out that you were pregnant.

The fear that had gripped you that night, as you sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring down with tear-blurred vision at the positive pregnancy test that you weakly clutched onto between a trembling finger and thumb, that fear was nothing compared to what you felt now.

You thought you had been scared then, as you thought of how to tell your boyfriend of three years that he was going to be a father.

You thought you were scared when you had wordlessly shown him the trio of positive tests, watching as his bright blue eyes took in the results, widening and darting every which way but your face as he stumbled out of your shared apartment with nothing more than a mumbled ‘ _I’ll call you later_ ’.

You thought you were scared when you killed your first biter, out in your parent’s backyard with your younger brother’s baseball bat, a solid _thwack!_ to the side of the head causing it’s skull to cave in on itself as it dropped to the floor.

But boy, oh boy, all of those fears you felt? They were _nothing_ compared to the terror that currently resided in every cell of your body, almost a year on after everything began.

You had stayed with your group for about four months before things started going south. By then, you were five months pregnant, and you were starting to feel it. In the beginning, you could hide your pregnancy, and with practice you had become a valuable member of the group when it came to killing the biters. However, as soon as you had started showing, the group had point-blank refused to let you go anywhere near them.

 Your baby was a visible bump that could no longer be hidden under loose clothing, and it had just started moving about – something which both terrified and comforted you. You were thankful that the group had found a place to set up camp, because you didn’t think you would be able to take the constant walking that you had all endured within the first month.

Your gratitude was short-lived, because soon after, the five that had gone off on a regular supply run had returned as a pair; the twelve was now a nine, and that number was quick to dwindle down to six when the group was attacked by several biters a week later. What remained of the group was quick to pack up and leave, and so you travelled on foot for several days before setting up a base in an abandoned house on the outskirts of a ghost town.

By some cruel of fate – be it irony or a simple coincidence – the house had a fully decorated nursery.

The sight of the room, painted a pale yellow and decorated with cartoon rubber duck stickers, had knocked the wind from your lungs, and you had to clutch at the doorframe with both hands to keep yourself standing. On shaking legs, you had taken several hesitant steps, one hand trailing over the top of the white drawers to disrupt the fine layer of dust, before stopping at the foot of the rocking cradle in the center of the room. A mobile of soft ducks in an array of pastel colors hung above the cradle, and you stared at it until your eyes blurred before you dared to look down into the cradle.

The relief that hit you when you saw it empty and untouched made you weak, and you stumbled to collapse into the rocking chair besides the cot as you forced yourself to think about anything but the fate of the baby that this nursery once belonged to.  

When you had finally gathered yourself, you had pushed up out of the chair and shuffled about the room, checking the drawers to reveal that they were fully stocked with baby clothes, blankets, diapers, and so much more that before long your head was spinning again with the reality that you were _really fucking unprepared_ for this baby.

But then again, it was kind of hard to be prepared for anything in the apocalypse.

Leanne, a woman in her early fifties who had taken on the role of being your ‘midwife’ considering she had had several children herself, had found you standing in the middle of the nursery, a tiny pair of baby socks held in your hands as tears streamed down your cheeks. She had bustled in and pulled you in for a hug, her hand reaching up to brush the loose strands of hair from your face as she soothed you with murmurs that made no sense to you, because how could things be okay when your next door neighbor was trying to eat you, and how can you stop crying when every breath could be your last? And how the _hell_ were you supposed to be able to care for this baby on your own when its father had run off and left you?

It was three months later before you found yourself stood in that nursery again. Half of the group had gone out on a supply run, and so you decided to busy yourself by familiarizing yourself with baby things. Your swollen feet made walking a task, and so you had dragged the rocking chair over to the drawers before taking a seat and going through each drawer. You still had at least two weeks to go before the baby was due, but as you sat there, one hand rubbing small circles into your bump whilst the other hand busied itself with counting diapers, you felt the dawning horror that this baby might want out sooner.

The warm rush of liquid that soaked your pants and dripped off the sides of the chair had your cheeks immediately flaming red with embarrassment, however your shame was quick to be replaced by fear when you were hit with a cramp that you hadn’t felt in almost nine months. Your quiet whimpers of panic were soon replaced by a borderline hysterical yell for Leanne, the end of her name tapering off into a shriek as you were hit by another contraction.

Needless to say both Leanne and Eric, the other member that had been put in charge of killing the biters whilst the others were out, were quick to come, both of them wide-eyed and weapons drawn as if somehow a biter had gotten into the nursery. “I-it … It’s happening … The b-baby …”

Eric was quick to back out of the room and pick up his guard of the door; meanwhile Leanne was helping you to stand as she guided you to a clear space on the floor, laying you down before dashing out to gather whatever it was she needed. Your mind darted back to the pregnancy book you had found in the nursery, and as another contraction hit, all you could think was ‘ _the book said there would be minutes between each contraction, not fucking seconds’_.  

“Take off your pants, sweetheart.” Leanne had called, and you had managed to get them just past your knees when another contraction hit. Without much thought you rolled over onto your hands and knees, deciding to leave what little dignity you had left in favor of comfort, though it was pretty hard to come by as another contraction struck you, this time so sharp that you shrieked in shock.

_They’re not supposed to come this quick_ , you thought, panic taking over as your breathing got shallower. You heard Leanne hurry in, could hear her gasp in shock before she dropped to her knees and helped you. “I can already see the top of its head. Honey, this baby is coming fast.”

Things sort of blurred after that. You couldn’t remember biting down to silence your screams, but at some point Leanne had taken off her belt and placed it in your mouth so you wouldn’t bite your own tongue off. She had also removed your pants the rest of the way, because your legs were spread wider than you could remember. Your heartbeat and heavy breathing had been the only sounds you could hear, Leanne’s encouragement sounding distant, as if you were underwater; however, the first shrill newborn cry that pierced the air cleared your senses and made you focus within a second.

The belt dropped to the floor as your jaw dropped, and your trembling arms almost gave out as you pushed yourself to turn around. You didn’t know when you started crying, but through glassy eyes you saw Leanne cradling a bundle of blood-streaked towels, and a tiny pale arm stretched out, smeared in bodily fluids that probably would have made you scrunch your nose up , but in that moment you didn’t fucking care.

“That was the quickest birth I’ve ever witnessed, sweetheart.” She murmured with shock written across her face, her eyes darting between you and the baby in her arms. “That had to have been about ten minutes, if that.”

You stared at the bundle in her arms in a daze. It didn’t feel like ten minutes, it had felt like ten _hours_ , but as Leanne’s arms stretched out towards you, and you instinctively reached out to grasp the tiny life wrapped up in those towels, time seemed to stand still.

“Congratulations, sweetheart, it’s a boy!”

Your lungs seized up as you stared down at the face of your baby, your _son_ , and the tears that blurred your vision were quick to roll down your cheeks to be soaked up by the towels he was bundled up in. He was _tiny_ , his face screwed up tight and limbs pulled close to his body except for the one arm that reached out. With a quivering arm, you adjusted your hold on him and reached out to touch his fist, your finger alone almost big enough to wrap around it. Despite your previous assumptions that newborns were pretty much bald, he had thick dark hair slicked down to match the dark lashes that currently rested against his cheeks.

He shifted in your arms, a quiet gurgle leaving him before he settled again in your arms, and as you reached up to brush your finger against his cheek, your silent crying became full-on sobs as he opened his eyes to reveal bright blue eyes, just like his daddy.

Just like Daryl.


	2. The Downfall

Not long after the birth, you had passed out from shock. You had woken up the next day in a bed with Leanne by your side. The pain had you remembering the birth quickly, and you immediately sat up, the question of “where is he?” passing your lips faster that Leanne could exhale.

“Calm down, sweetheart, he’s fine. He’s in the nursery with Jack watching over him. The rest of the group got back a couple of hours after he was born,” She explained, standing up to gently push you back down into bed. “You have minimal bleeding, and you only needed a couple of stitches, but you’re still going to be sore for a while so you need to rest easy. That entire birth was a miracle, because the pair of you are going to be just fine.”

“Can I see him?” You asked breathlessly, pushing to sit up regardless of Leanne’s fluttering hands.

“Here he is.” Jack calls softly from the doorframe before Leanne can respond, and he walks in, his large arms cradling a bundle of blankets. He looked almost comical, the hulking man that was once a soldier coming over to you to place your baby into your awaiting arms, and you smiled softly in thanks to him before your attention turned to your son.

Someone – most likely Leanne – had cleaned him off, and his dark hair had been dried and fluffed up. Beneath the blanket, he had been dressed in a pale yellow bodysuit that was too big for him, the sleeves having been rolled up to reveal his hands, still held in tight fists.

“He sure is a cute one.” Jack commented, and you nodded in agreement, glancing up to find him staring down at your baby in wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe how something so innocent had made it into the current world.

“And quiet too.” Eric added as he came into the room. “You didn’t attract a single biter during that birth, and he’s barely cried, only slept.”

You had glanced at Leanne in mild alarm at that. “Shouldn’t he, y’know, cry?”

“I checked him over and he seems to be fine to me, sweetheart,” She explained calmly, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “He’s just a quiet baby.”

“Just like his daddy.” You whispered, cuddling him closer. You had refused to look up at any of them, knowing that you would be met with those pitying stares. They all thought that he had died in the beginning, and you hadn’t bothered to correct them, because truth be told, you didn’t know either. Daryl was strong, a survivor, he always had been, but so had the other members of your group, and now half of them were dead.

“Can I have some time with him?” You ask, blinking back the tears that you could feel welling up. “Alone? Please?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” Leanne stood from the chair beside you. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”

The three of them had shuffled out of the room, throwing glances over their shoulders at you, though you didn’t let out the quiet sigh of relief until after you heard the door softly shut. Tears found their way down your cheeks, and you had furiously wiped them away before they could fall, fighting back the emotions that clawed at you from inside. Now was not the time to cry, you had a son to protect, and you could hardly do that when all you were doing was dwelling on the past, thinking of a man that ran away from a future that you could have shared together.

Despite what Leanne had said, you slowly pushed out of bed and stood up, your grip on him secure as your bare feet met the cool hardwood floor. Your breath caught in your throat at the sharp pains, but you clenched your teeth and pushed on, taking a couple of hesitant steps along the side of the bed in case you fell. When you felt secure enough, you walked over to the window, peeling back the sheer curtains to peer out at the deserted town.

A biter was shuffling its way down the street, one arm missing and a leg clearly broken as it swayed unevenly and dragged along the tarmac. Despite the distance and the walls between you, your grip still tightened on your baby, drawing him closer to your chest as a subconscious attempt to protect him. It slowly passed by the house before continuing on down the street, completely unaware, and you breathed a sigh of relief before a thought struck you.

With a quick glance at the door, you had shuffled over and slowly opened the door, eyes darting about the empty hallway before wandering over to the nursery. The blankets in the cot had been disturbed, and you thought for a second about putting him back before shaking your head and continuing on in your search. It only took you a minute to find the baby sling in one of the top drawers, and you adjusted your hold before making your way back to the bedroom.

Tossing the sling onto the bed, you dropped down onto the bed with an exhausted sigh, almost immediately regretting the action as you jolt from the pain. The jostling wakes your son, and his eyes blink open in shock before he breaks out into loud wails. You hurry to settle him, gently bouncing him in your arms and hushing him as you glance over your shoulder with wide eyes at the window. Footsteps can be heard coming up the steps, and the door opens to reveal a concerned Leanne. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“Um, yeah, I’m fine.” You mumbled, still bouncing him in your arms. To your dismay, his cries only seemed to be getting louder, and you glanced up at her with wide eyes that screamed for help. “So much for a quiet baby ...”

“Perhaps he’s hungry.” She suggested, and you nodded hesitantly before shifting him in your arms. His hands reached out, trying to grab at the fabric of your shirt, and you glanced between him and Leanne before clearing your throat, unsure of how to ask her to leave. However, she seemed to get the message, because she smiled softly and pulled the door closed.

After some awkward fumbling and quiet pleading, his cries were silenced as he began to suckle. It was strange, but then again, how strange can it be when you live in an age where the dead come back to life to eat the living?

It was a couple of months after the birth that things went horribly wrong. Half of the group had gone out on a supply run, only to return one member short. The remaining five of you had gone to sleep with a heavy heart, though you had woken up to nurse Oliver, your bare feet padding the hardwood before sinking into the soft carpet of the nursery. Setting the flashlight onto the top of the drawers, you lifted him from the cradle to find him already awake, blue eyes blinking sleepily. Cradling him in your arms, you slowly sit in the rocking chair and prepare to feed him, only to freeze at the sound of a loud yell, followed by a panicked scream that was distinctly Leanne.

Fear seized you, and you launched out of the chair to grab the flashlight before darting to your bedroom and shutting the door. Hurriedly placing Oliver onto the bed, you wedge the chair from the corner of the room beneath the handle before rushing to scoop him back up. Another yell could be heard from downstairs, and a gunshot goes off. You jump, and Oliver is quick to cry at the sound, and you try desperately to hush him.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, followed by desperate knocking at your door, and you jump again before rushing to the door. You reach to grab the chair, only to freeze at the sound of a sharp yell of pain and a wet splatter which you had heard all too often before. You didn’t know who is was, but the sound was distinct enough for you to know that whoever it was on the other side of the door, they had been bitten.

Oliver continued to wail in your arms, and the biter on the other side of the door battered and scratched in an attempt to get in. Scrambling back, you placed Oliver on the bed again before rushing over to the heavy oak chest of drawers, grunting as you struggled to push it in front of the door to act as a better barricade. Panting, you snatched up the baby sling from the top of the drawers and practically threw it on before picking him up and putting him in it. The close contact does little to calm him, and you struggle to adjust him in his sling whilst simultaneously trying to move your shirt to feed him.

A particularly hard slam against the door causes something to snap within you, the instinct to protect Oliver taking over. With one hand, you cradle his head close as he starts to nurse, meanwhile the other hand grabbed the M1911 from the nightstand and tucked it into the waistband of your pants, before picking up the aluminum baseball bat that rested against the wall. Despite his silenced cries, the biters were still clawing at the door and your gaze darted anxiously between the window and the door as you debated what to do.

The jump from the window was too dangerous – Oliver wouldn’t survive the fall, and your legs would definitely sustain some damage upon impact. However, opening the door seemed just as bad. Using your gun would waste ammunition and draw the attention of more biters, but using the bat put Oliver at risk of being bitten or scratched.

Tightening the sling so that he was secure, you chose to move the drawers to allow the door to open by almost a foot, which would give you enough space to swing the bat down onto the biter’s head without it being able to get into the room. Taking a deep breath, you glanced down at Oliver before twisting the door handle and darting back, letting go of Oliver to hold the bat in both hands. The door swings open automatically from the weight of the biters leaning against it, and the dull thud of wood on wood makes you jump before you raise the bat over your head and bring it down onto the frontal bone of the skull of the first biter.

It drops to the floor and the second biter immediately stumbles forward to take its place, its blood streaked arms reaching through the gap to try and grab you. Its fingers nearly brush against the sling cradling Oliver, and terror takes over as you swing of the bat and break its arms with a wet snap, the limbs falling limp before you swing a second time and crush its skull like the first biter. The bat drops from your hands, and you reach forward to try and shut the door, only for it to be blocked by the second biter’s arms. Instead, you step away and sit on the edge of the bed, grabbing the flashlight to check on Oliver.

Despite the jostling as you had swung the bat, he had remained quiet, and was slowly falling back to sleep, his tiny hand clutching at the fabric of your shirt. You had allowed yourself to smile softly at him before standing again to study the biters. As the flashlight shone down on them, you had to fight to hold back the sob, seeing the bloodied faces of Leanne and Eric staring blankly up at you.


	3. On Foot

You remained in the bedroom for the rest of the night, too exhausted and too terrified to leave. Oliver barely stirred, and when the first light of dawn broke, you took the chance to drag the drawers out of the way of the door to leave. After checking the hallway with the bat raised and ready to swing, you had hesitantly checked the bodies of Leanne and Eric for weapons, finding a Sig Sauer P226 in Eric’s holster and a trench knife still in his hand.

Finding nothing on Leanne, you take both weapons before you slowly make your way down the stairs, careful to avoid the smears and pools of blood. The front room was a blood bath, the bodies of Jack and Carter strewn across the floor like ragdolls. Their dead eyes stared blankly, seeing nothing, and you slowly closed the door as you walked in to check them for weapons too. A bullet wound to Jack’s temple made you swallow, and the knife that had killed Carter was still wedged in the back of his skull.

You found two more guns and a machete, deciding to leave the knife in Carter’s skull if only because the thought of pulling it out of your once-friend’s head made you sick. Placing your small gathering of weapons in a pile on the couch you keep a hold of your bat and leave the room, checking the rest of the house for biters. Finding none, you return to the front room to try and figure out just what the hell had happened.

An outstretched arm of Carter’s caught your attention, dried blood peeking out from underneath the long sleeve of his forearm. Carefully peeling the fabric back, you catch sight of a deep bite, not quite ready to scab, but old enough to have dried, and you realized that he must have been bitten on the supply run yesterday.

A sob caught in your throat, and you were struck with the realization that for the first time in almost a year, you were alone. Of course, you had Oliver, but of the two of you, you would be the only one able to do anything. He relied on you completely and utterly, and it was this fact that pushed you to stand and gather supplies to make a pack.

After some struggling, you had stripped Jack of his gun belt, and taken Carter’s holster from his belt, allowing you to keep three guns on your waist with the third tucked in the back of your waistband. You had found the machete sheath, and threaded it onto the belt to hang at your side. The fourth gun you kept at the top of your pack, which was filled with food, water, diapers and spare baby clothing. Oliver remained asleep in his sling, and you wrapped him in an extra blanket for protection before pulling on Jack’s oversized leather jacket that was big enough to zip closed around the both of you, before grabbing the pack and hauling it onto your back.

Grunting at the weight of it, you shifted about before grabbing the trench knife in one hand and the bat in the other. The knuckle duster that made up the handle of the knife allowed for an easier grip, though you still preferred the distance that your bat gave you. Shifting the barricade from the front door, you glanced out through the peephole before letting the door creak open and slipping out.

Keeping your wits about you, you debated on whether to stay in town or head into the forest, knowing that Oliver would need the shelter that the town provided. However at the sight of a handful of biters shuffling through the streets, you whipped around and took the road out of town before heading into the forest.

 

After several hours of walking and minimal crying from Oliver, you found the forest thinning out as a road came into view.

You had come across a total of three biters, and you had found that a stab to the temple with your knife was easier than swinging a bat in an area crowded by dense trees. As you maneuvered your way through the forest, you thought of different weapons that would be better suited for the situation, like a gun, but you were saving your bullets and didn’t want to scare Oliver or attract more biters with the noise. It didn’t take your mind long to supply you with the answer you were avoiding.

A bow would be good.

Memories of Daryl showing you his crossbow filled your head, of him teaching you how to shoot a bolt and taking you hunting in a forest just like this one. Once again, tears filled your eyes, but it wasn’t the time or place for crying, and so you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and carried on through the forest, closer to the road up ahead.

You stopped at the edge of the forest, unsure of whether to walk along the road or through the forest. Logic told you to stay safe and stick to the forest where the cover of the trees could protect you; however, the sight of a car up ahead had your hopes rising. If that car worked, you would have transportation and shelter, and you wouldn’t be so exhausted from the continuous walking and added weight of a baby and a pack.

Picking up the pace, you pick your way through the trees along the edge of the road, slowing down at the familiar groans and growls of biters. You considered turning and heading back into the forest, only for a biter to drag its way around the car to shuffle its way in your direction. Adjusting your grip on the bat, you wait for it to come closer before swinging. The direct hit to its temple causes shards of skull and brain matter to splatter across the asphalt and its body collides with the car, filling the air with a metallic thud, however the momentum of the swing combined with the weight of your pack almost knocks you to the ground, and you hurry to shrug it off and drop it onto the ground.

The noise catches the attention of the other biters, and two more are quick to follow the first. When the bat hits the next biter’s head, its head seems to wrap around the metal it was so soft, and it falls to the ground with a dent in its skull like a crescent moon. The second biter seems to have only turned recently, looking more human than reanimated rotted flesh, and when you swing at it, his neck snaps, but he continues to move forward, and you stumble back before darting around and stabbing it in the back of the head to avoid the hands that stretched out to grab you.

Your trench knife gets stuck in the biter’s skull, the bone still more human than the soft cartilage that seemed to make up biter skulls, and you hurry to yank your fingers from the knuckle duster handle of the knife before its body drops to the ground. Meanwhile, another biter had shuffled its way towards you, and you spun on your heel for the aluminum bat to meet its skull, before swinging down on its skull for the second time as a safety measure.

Things are silent, and you stand still for a moment before returning to the biter whose head your trench knife still resided in. With a foot to its head to brace yourself, you yanked the weapon free with a grunt and stumbled back. Dropping your bat beside your pack, you clutch the knife before slowly creeping around the side of the car to see what had previously caught the attention of the biters. Smeared across the asphalt were the remains of what you thought had once been a deer – a guess that you could only make based on the sheer mess that the remains had made – and your stomach rolled at the gore.

A scream lodged itself in your throat as a hand wrapped around your ankle, and through the leather of your boots you could feel the bones try to claw into you. The grip was solid, and you couldn’t yank free, nor could you turn around to step on the head of the biter that had crawled out from underneath the car. You thought to stab it in the head, but the thought of Oliver getting scratched or falling had you fumbling with the gun tucked into your waistband, and without much thought, you dropped the knife, covered Oliver’s ears as best as possible, and fired at the biters head. 

Blood and brains decorated your boots, and immediately Oliver’s shrill cries pierced the air, joining the sound of the shot that echoed about the empty road and into the forest. Finally pulling your foot free from the grasp of the now-dead biter, you pick your knife back up and wipe at the dirt on the car window, jumping back with a gasp when a biter inside throws itself at the glass. You consider just taking it out, but Oliver’s cries were bordering on hysterical, and if you were being honest, that biter looked like a vicious son of a bitch.

With a huff of frustration, you lean back against the car, head tilted back to stare at the sky and catch your breath before dropping your knife again to tend to Oliver. You’re about to pull your shirt down to feed him when the sound of voices catches your attention. Twisting around, you start to push away from the car to grab your pack and leave when the sound of heavy footfall pounding the asphalt has you looking down the road.

“It was only one gunshot!” You heard a male voice state, and you rush forward to haul your pack over your shoulder, your other hand scooping up your baseball bat, before dashing to take cover behind the car, your foot narrowly avoiding the outstretched hand of the dead biter.

Kneeling down to peer over the hood of the car, you drop the bat in favor of drawing the gun from your waistband with one hand, meanwhile the other hand busied itself with trying to silence Oliver. Your trembling fingers brush against his soft hair and full cheeks before his mouth latched on to your pinkie finger and he began to suckle. His cries silenced to gurgles as he occupied himself, his tiny fingers reaching up to grip your finger as if to try and hold it in place.

Curling yourself tighter around him, you slowly took the safety off and braced your arm against the hood of the car as you aimed down the road in the direction of the hammering footsteps which were only growing louder by the second.

“I thought I heard a baby crying!” Another voice shouts, this one female and tinted with panic.

Steeling yourself, you watch as the group of people – around ten if your estimate was right – slowly come into view, their steps slowing at the sight of the car you hid behind. A tall man in the center of the group raised his hand as a signal for the rest of the group to stop, and they all halted to gather closer to him. He glances over his shoulder, and another man joins him at his side, only this time your eyes narrow as you squint in confusion.

Everything about the second man was familiar, from his figure to the way he walked. The dark hair that fell across his forehead was longer than he used to keep it, and he appeared even more tanned and battered up that you remembered, but there was no denying who the man was, and you almost choked on thin air when you were struck by the startling realization that the man was Daryl.

Your Daryl.


	4. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enter Daryl!

Time seemed to freeze for you, as you crouched against the hood of the car and stared. You watched as he leaned towards the man, his head turned down and eyes pinned to the asphalt as he listened to whatever was being muttered in his ear.

Against your better judgment, you decided to throw caution to the wind and push yourself up from your crouch, though you kept your gun aimed. “Daryl..?” You called out uncertainly, your voice thin and trembling with an indistinguishable emotion.

His entire frame goes rigid at the sound of your voice, arms tensing as the grip on his crossbow tightened before his head jerked up to stare in your direction. His eyes meet yours, and the tremble in your voice becomes physical, your arm shaking as you struggle to keep the gun aimed. You watch as the emotions wash over him, jaw slackening and lips parting in shock, and you can feel your own eyes widening as you realize that it was _actually him_.

The unidentified emotion is quick enough to make itself known as it morphs into anger, and you lower your gun for the pack to slide off your shoulder before slowly taking your first steps towards him, skirting around the car and storming down the road, not even blinking when you hear the sickening squelch of your boot stepping on the crushed head of a biter.

“Daryl Dixon, you absolute _asshole!_ ” You all but yell, your pace increasing as your anger flares up into fury. “How fucking _dare you?!_ I tell you I’m pregnant and you run off and _leave me?!_ What the _fuck?!_ ”

In your anger, you forget that you’re supposed to be keeping Oliver quiet, and you throw your hands up in disbelief at Daryl’s actions, before wincing at the sound of his first shrill wail. Stopping several feet away, you look away as your rage evaporates, leaving tears to well up in your eyes, and you hurriedly shove the gun back into the waistband of your pants before turning your attention away from the man who had run away from you to comfort the reason why he had ran.

 “I’d just calmed him down …” You whispered almost mournfully, and you reach into the sling to lift Oliver out, shifting him in your arms to cradle him. One hand reaches up in an attempt to placate him like before, but his tiny fists only pushed your finger away. With a quiet sigh, you take to hushing him softly, alternating between bouncing him in your arms and patting him on the back instead.

Meanwhile Daryl had continued staring at you in complete disbelief, unable to process the fact that you were stood in front of him with a tiny life that he had helped to create. Your name finally left him, a whisper on an exhaled breath that was no louder than a sigh, but you heard it clear as day, and so you hesitated for a second before glancing up at him, your glassy eyes struggling to focus on his.

“What?” You muttered, voice thick through the tears that you struggled to push back.

Daryl’s mouth fell open, as if by chance words would just spill out from him and make everything better, but he knew that he was no good with words, and the longer he stared at you, the more hopeless he felt. His lower lip trembled as his gaze fell from you to the baby in your arms, and his breath caught in his throat when a tiny arm emerged from the bundle of blankets.

“C’mere …” He muttered quietly, voice thick with unshed tears as he broke away from his group to close the distance between the two of you.

His arms are around you in a second, his hold tight and secure as if terrified that when he let go of you, you would be gone. Burying his face in your exposed neck, you can feel his tears soak your skin, and as much as you wanted to stay locked in his embrace for the rest of time, you have to pull back slightly for the sake of Oliver, however Daryl is quick to take the movement the wrong way.

“M’sorry …” He mumbles, furiously swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Avoiding your gaze, he rips away from you as if he’d been burnt.

“No, Daryl – that’s not it.” You rush to explain, hurriedly shuffling your grip to reach out before he stepped back. “You just have to be careful, that’s all ...”

The tears that he’d attempted to brush away return, his eyes glassy as he lifts his head to stare at the bundle in your eyes once again. A shuddering breath leaves him, and once again his lips part, but no words come out.

“You can hold him if you want …” You murmur, head tilting to the side in an attempt to catch his eye. Once again you adjust your hold on Oliver, before holding him out slightly towards Daryl.

He slides the crossbow from his shoulder to place it on the ground, his eyes not once leaving Oliver, and he reaches out hesitantly, both palms facing up. A snort of laughter bubbles up from within you, and Daryl’s eyes jerk up to stare at your face, captivated by the smirk that curls your lips.

“He’s not a piece to a motorcycle,” You chide him, and a low grunt of embarrassment leaves Daryl before he drops his hands to his sides. “Here, hold your arms like I am.”

Following your gentle instructions, Daryl’s arms form a cradle to his chest, and your smirk softens into a smile as you lift Oliver to place him in Daryl’s arms. You adjust the blankets around him, pulling them back to reveal his face more, and you can hear Daryl’s breath stutter as he stares down at his son.

“He has your eyes, y’know.” You state, and a low rumble of a chuckle leaves him. Glancing up at Daryl’s face, you reach up to wipe away the tears from his cheeks, before rubbing your thumb over the high points of his cheekbones. “It’s okay to cry, baby.”

A whimper so quiet you could have mistaken it for Oliver escapes Daryl’s lips, and your hand stretches further to brush his hair back from his forehead as you hush him softly. Your hand finds its way back to rest on the side of his face, and Daryl turns his head to press a soft kiss to your palm before staring back down at Oliver.

“What’d you call him?”

“Oliver.” You whispered, voice as low as his, and you watched in delight as Daryl’s lips slowly formed a smile, a quiet hum of approval leaving him.

“Lil Oliver, huh? You bein’ good for your mom?” He murmurs, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“He sure is, he’s a dream baby.”

Daryl grunts, and then clears his throat, shuffling his feet for a moment as he stared down at Oliver before back to you. “M’sorry. ‘M so, _so_ sorry … When you- When I …”

“Shh, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it right now.” You mutter quietly, rubbing your thumb over his cheek in an attempt to soothe him as he struggled to find the right words. He grunted again, his eyes meeting yours, and you offer him a smile before dropping your arm. Taking a step back, you allow yourself to take in the view of Daryl cradling Oliver before you turn your attention to the mass of confused people behind him.

“So, are you gonna introduce me to the rest of your group?”


End file.
